


death is a girl (and she’s only one dance away)

by Mia_Zeklos



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (fantasies about) throne sex, Courtroom Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Mand'alor (Star Wars), Mild Power Play if you squint, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, This has 0 redeeming qualities, and namely one Din Djarin in the position, but for like a paragraph and used solely for smut purproses, extensive bedroom gymnastics over who gets to be on top, literally nothing happens here other than porn, post-current canon, which means that it's once again time for my favourite tag, you can probably play whack a mole with all the thinly veiled kinks in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mia_Zeklos/pseuds/Mia_Zeklos
Summary: Cara's armed to the teeth - even more so than she would be by her usual standards - and the smile gracing her features suddenly strikes him as unusually dangerous. Despite all the regalia that he's got in place, Din feels exposed, as if her appraising eyes can slide right past the surface of his armour and directly into everything hiding beneath it that he'd already willingly surrendered to her.She comes to a stop right in front of the dais, meets his eyes for a fleeting moment, and sinks into the most elaborate, carefully executed curtsey he'd ever seen. "Your Majesty."(Din's position as ruler of Mandalore leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to entertainment. Cara is kind enough to stop by).
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cara Dune
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	death is a girl (and she’s only one dance away)

**Author's Note:**

> /Title taken from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qJ8rEbnQ1E)/
> 
> It's one in the morning. I've been trying to write this fic on and off for about a month now. It might not be proofread, but it _is_ written, and therefore, it is posted and safely out of my system. Hope you guys enjoy it and, as always, feedback is most welcome!

The life of a bounty hunter is rarely boring. There are many unpleasant things about it and Din had resigned himself to the majority of them over the years - it's dangerous and unpredictable and it requires more patience than he sometimes has for it - but it's never _boring_ ; not in the way that ruling over a planet he had never even seen before is.

This is all temporary, of course; it's what he keeps telling himself whenever the inactivity starts weighting him down. The Darksaber truly is all about the story, as it appears, and he's willing to carry this particular portion of it to its end if it means he gets to go back to his life afterwards. Bo-Katan would be a much more determined ruler, but apparently just admitting that isn't an option, so ruling it is, until they can stage a believable enough fight over it and then go their separate ways.

Hence the boredom.

Mandalore is a strange world in every sense of the word - to him, at least - but the throne room he'd had to claim somehow manages to be even stranger. It's a cold, permanently dark space with only the occasion ray of sunshine sneaking in through the impossibly high windows. It's spacious, too, with every little sound enhancing itself between the stone walls, and the rare visitors he gets on non-political matters announce themselves with their presence alone before the fellow Mandalorian doing that for him possibly could, their steps echoing down the stone pathway long before they actually reach him. He tries every time without fail, though, and now is no exception.

"Your Majesty," he says, hurrying ahead into the room as the heavy doors creak open. "May I present to you--"

"There's no need, Llur," Din interrupts him before he'd had the chance to finish his spiel. "That will be all."

"Yes, Your Majesty." By now, he had figured out the magic words that would grant him relative privacy, though there are plenty of onlookers anyway - the court he'd inherited always sees to that. "Call for me if you need anything else."

He won't - not in the near future, if the silhouette striding up to his throne turns out to be who he desperately hopes it is.

It's her, of course. There's no mistaking the swagger in every move; the familiar rhythm of her footsteps. After the sludge that the last few days had been, his week is finally starting to look up.

Cara's armed to the teeth - even more so than she would be by her usual standards - and the smile gracing her features suddenly strikes him as unusually dangerous. Despite all the regalia that he's got in place, Din feels exposed, as if her appraising eyes can slide right past the surface of his armour and directly into everything hiding beneath it that he'd already willingly surrendered to her.

She comes to a stop right in front of the dais, meets his eyes for a fleeting moment, and sinks into the most elaborate, carefully executed curtsey he'd ever seen. "Your Majesty."

It's not often that he's left speechless, but somehow, Cara never fails to deliver. "Marshall Dune."

The title has the desired effect - her eyes darken with interest as she rises back to her feet - but it's more a counterattack than anything else, with the unexpected frisson of heat that had raced up his body at the sound of a title that is, on his most generous days, annoying at best. It's not just that she's the one saying it, but the _way_ she does it - eyes lowered towards the ground in deceptive humility, glancing up at him through her thick lashes, challenge flashing in their dark depths now and again. For a moment, he wonders if he's just seeing things - if perhaps, this is how royalty is ( _was_ ) always addressed on her world - but immediately disregards the notion. It's _Cara_. She can only ever be this deliberately proper with authority if she's got something to gain from it.

"I bring news," she says as she straightens back up from a position that he hadn't been entirely aware the human body could so easily contort itself into - though then again, maybe it's just her - continuing on with whatever she's here for as if she expects him to carry a conversation with her expectant eyes focused on him from below in a seeming subjugation that he's nowhere near ready to admit affects him at all.

He gives her a magnanimous nod. _Two can play that game_. If she wants to act this out _here_ , he can follow that particular script well enough by now. "Go on."

Cara's eyes widen and she's so _transparent_ that he wants to laugh, but the urge is somewhat smothered behind the helmet, especially when she makes another, supposedly hesitant, step towards the throne. "May I, Your Grace?"

The fact that she doesn't care enough about this to stick to the same title but has put enough thought into it to torment him in public should make him furious. Somehow, it only fills him with more fondness than he knows what to do with. "Come forward. My Lady," he adds as an afterthought. It's a shot in the dark, but it works - the glimmer of amusement in her eyes catches on fire when she realises he's playing along. _As if there had ever been any doubt._

"Thank you." She steps up on the dais, hand lingering over his where it's clutched around the handle of his throne, the rough material of her glove sliding like a whisper up his forearm when he doesn't back away at the initial touch. "If you would be so generous to let me deliver the message in private."

Oh, he's going to _kill_ her for this. He actually is this time. There are _people_ here, and they're all watching with more interest than they should be allowed to have in someone else's life, and she's always so— so—

"Of course." Her grin is wicked enough even before she catches the breathiness in his voice; an instant later, when she lets his hand go and pulls away from the throne, it's positively evil. _Two can play that game_ , he reminds himself again, and what Cara wants, Cara gets, so he soldiers on. "Wait for me in my quarters."

She does her very best impression of scandal, innocent surprise written all over her face right before she nods and spins on her heel, exiting the throne room down a hallway she must know by heart by now.

He really is going to kill her. Or make her pay in some way, at least. He’s sure of it this time.

"She's a beauty."

Din is so preoccupied with whatever stunt this is - he has the vague idea that it must be payback, though for what exactly, he's yet to determine - that he doesn't notice one of his advisors float up behind him in that insufferably quiet way they have, analysing eyes studying Cara's retreating back. His sudden appearance is nearly enough to make him jump out of his skin, but he doesn't flinch - it's not kingly to do so, or make any movement not entirely planned for, as he'd been informed - and he frowns at the non-sequitur. "She's here on a mission."

"Oh, I'm sure." The man - going by the name Irgas, if Din remembers correctly - gives him a smile too unpleasant to explain anything at all. "She has been to court before, hasn't she?"

"She's visited a few times—"

"Not _here_ ," he interrupts, condescending enough that Din wonders if it can count as enough of an offence for him to refuse to be _advised_ by him for at least a day or two. "She's had the training for it, is what I mean. That brand on her face is regrettable, but there’s still—"

"Is this going anywhere?" _He doesn't know,_ Din repeats to himself like a mantra, _he didn't see_. The hall is badly lit and Cara's attention had been entirely on him; there's no way the man could have taken a good look at her face at all.

"It certainly is." He sounds far too confident for his own good - or _anyone's_ good, for that matter. "You know her quite well, don't you, Your Majesty?"

And just like that, it grates on his ears again. "I do. I'd trust her with my life." He _has_ , on numerous occasions, but there's no need to go that far. "For as long as I'm here, she's a welcome guest."

"I'm assuming she's a little more than that, if the news she brings must be delivered solely to you, in your quarters." Din doesn't have the time to argue and it occurs to him, moments later, that there's no point - he had figured out that personal space is something he would have to forego for the time being if he wants to see this charade through. "She would be popular with the public, should you decide to introduce her to said public. Beautiful, a fierce warrior, and, if I'm to judge by the markings on her arm, a war veteran? She would do wonders for your public image."

" _A fierce warrior_ ," Din echoes, voice frostier than he had realised it can get. "That's what you call her, and you still think I can parade her around Mandalore for the people to accept or reject her?"

" _No_ , Your Majesty, of course not." Despite the vehement denial, it's precisely what he'd suggested, and Din can't help the grim amusement that takes over him. Whatever the man is used to, it's clearly not him - or Cara, if anyone can ever be used to anything about her. "I simply meant to assure you that the match you've clearly made is a good one. It could certainly profit from heirs, but," there's a pat on his shoulder, carefully friendly and just as condescending as everything in this conversation had been, "one thing at a time."

"Heirs?" Din asks, but no response comes - his advisor had wisely retreated back to wherever it is that his court resides when they're not preoccupied with breathing down his back.

It's not that he hadn't thought about it, of course. He had never thought of bringing Cara to Mandalore to be his bride, because he doesn't intend to _stay_ on Mandalore for long – even if there’s no way for anyone to possibly know that, barring Cara herself and Bo-Katan – but they’d both thought of what the future could hold for them; had discussed it enough times. And still. _Heirs_? It sounds so strangely detached like this.

Din does his best to shake himself out of the rabbit hole this is likely to take him down through. After all, he hadn’t lied – Cara must be here for a reason, and she’s waiting for him. Missing out on that to try and figure out his temporary court’s schemes would be a waste of time – the sort of time he doesn’t have if she’s going to leave as quickly as she usually tends to. Cara is a woman of action and he knows better than anyone else that he can’t keep her chained in one place for long, especially not if the place in question is Mandalore. It hadn’t appealed to her in the slightest ever since the start.

Still, she seems to have taken a liking to his temporary quarters, from what he can tell. The fact that she’s sprawled over his bed when he comes in, eyes closed as she burrows even deeper into the ridiculously soft covers piled in several layers over it, proves that much. It suits her much better than it does him, Din thinks, and she’s hypnotic like this; a queen in the making with or without the title his advisor had tried to impose on her.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Plenty.” The low purr of her voice is an invitation all by itself and Din steps closer, the sound of the door sliding shut and locking into place the final push he needs to let the tension that plagues him day and night on this planet seep out of his body, replaced with the sort of giddy impatience that only she ever seems to bring out of him. Cara sits up for long enough to pull him down on the bed by the hand, her smile so bright that it draws him in deep enough for him to forget that he’d ever had anything else on his mind to begin with. “Who would guess that being royalty would come with this kind of comfort?"

"You, apparently, according to my court."

It's only half about teasing her, this time, because as much as he hates to admit it, he _is_ curious, but Din regrets it as soon as Cara props herself up on one elbow to frown at him, puzzled. "Your court had something to say about me?"

"They aren't blind, so yes, they did." It's a statement of the obvious more than it is a compliment, but the only response he gets is a pleased grin anyway. "At least one of them thinks you've been trained for a life in court."

"Not quite, but almost." He desperately wants her to elaborate, but Cara seems more interested in unclasping the strings holding his beskar together over his underclothes, gaze focused on her own hands on his body as if she hasn't done this a hundred times by now. "I can find my way around a throne room, at least."

"I could see that." He doesn't sound anywhere near as disgruntled as he had meant to and what little of his indignation had remained dies a quick death when Cara finally manages to rid him of his undershirt, too, her idle touch lingering over his bare skin and leaving the same fire it had started back in the throne room in question. She's still fully clothed, everything from her boots through her gloves to her shoulder plates, and he wants nothing more than to return the favour, but he can show restraint long enough to be able to interrogate her. " _Your Grace_?"

"You liked it." Cara is unflappable as always and twice as smug, and before Din can say a thing, she neatly rearranges them on his ridiculous bed so that she can sprawl out on top of him, strands of dark hair tickling his chest as she leans over him to nuzzle at his neck, the caress followed by a trail of kisses down to the curve of his shoulder when he tilts his head back to give her more space to work with. Without even meaning to, he lets his own hands wander, too, eventually settling on the small of her back to keep her in place, as if there's a danger of her suddenly vanishing under his touch. The rough material of her armour is just as impenetrable as ever and he thumbs at the edge of the top of it in a silent request, huffing his displeasure when she doesn't as much as budge, her fingertips ghosting up his jawline as their lips finally meet. "And you hate everything here _so_ much," she continues, undeterred, when he flips them over so that she's back to being pressed against the pillows and he start tugging her gear out of the way on his way to his destination, "but I just knew you'd get a kick out of this if I said the right words, if it didn't have to be about duty for a— Din!"

Once the protective plates are out of the way, it's far too easy to get to bare skin and he cuts her off mid-gloating with a kiss of his own; down her clavicles and over the swell of her chest. He'd noticed the modifications that her armour had undergone all the way back on Nevarro when he'd initially landed for repairs, but it had been a while before they'd got to the point where he'd felt brave enough to exploit the sudden ease of access with the same greed that seems to take over him whenever he has her like this - relaxed and unhurried, leaving herself open to his attention for as long as they can both afford it. It's addicting and he drinks in the gasp that follows, Cara's breathing growing shallower under his attention. Din reaches up to undo the zipper that keeps her top closed on the side of her chest and helps her shrug it off and toss it to the side, huffing in frustration when it still leaves her in the soft undershirt that offers no protection whatsoever and only ever seems to get in his way. Cara laughs, breathless and more amused than he wants her to be when he's halfway done with undressing her, and he retaliates by moving on to her trousers, wrestling her belt buckle open and pulling them down her legs once she lifts her hips to help him out. In the time it takes him to get rid of both them and her boots, she’d divested herself of the rest of her layers, looking at him expectantly with the same note of something unfamiliar in her eyes; the one that has him so thoroughly convinced that this is all a game to her and he’s not quite in on the joke. It’s almost as if she’s playing coy, but not in the way she _usually_ would: there’s an act to it, as elusive as it is enticing. _I can find my way around a throne room_. What is that supposed to _mean_?

Before he can give himself the chance to overthink this, Din pulls her closer to himself again, one hand clasping down on her shoulder while the other snakes up her abdomen. Her breathing hitches deliciously when his fingers ghost over the swell of her breast and he thumbs its peak idly, giving himself the time to relish the sensation of her bare skin under his ungloved touch, as scorching hot as it always is. Her small hand wraps around his, urging him to be rougher and Din groans, burying his face in her chest when he realises that one way or another, he’s going to be rushed through this. He can feel her shift to keep him in place, fingers sinking into his hair to tug him closer still as he covers her with his frantic kisses, palming her breasts to enhance the sensation until her head falls back on a whimper, appreciative and plaintive at the same time. He doesn’t need to ask. _More_ , she would say, insatiable as always. He almost wants to wait for her to say it. _More, please Din..._

Instead, he pulls away and coaxes her thighs apart without the slightest effort to mask his impatience; pushes his middle finger against her drenched core, feeling himself twitch at the breathless moan that leaves her in response. She’s so wet already that there’s nearly no resistance to speak of and before long, he grows bolder, easing her on her back once again and crawling down her body until he can put his mouth where he’d wanted it ever since she’d walked into his throne room.

He imagines that, too, for a wild instant; imagines her sprawled out on that ridiculous chair as he kneels before it, one of her legs hooked over his shoulder to keep him in place while he explores her just as he is now, far less cautious and private about his life than he’s ever going to be in reality. Bits and pieces of his conversation with his advisor flicker through his mind: he thinks of his temporary subjects and presenting her to them as the treasure she is; thinks of crowning her queen and keeping her on that throne always, all so that he can see her drown in the kind of luxury that they’re being briefly afforded.

It’s nothing more than a fantasy, but it’s _beautiful_ and Din bites back a groan as he trails a line of kisses down her stomach, finally, _finally_ getting to put his mouth on her for what feels like the first time in forever. She’s always so wonderfully responsive and now is no exception – at the first swipe of his tongue, he can already feel her ankles lock on the small of his back, her thighs tensing around his head as she desperately tries to stay put. He’s surrounded by her in every possible direction and this is beautiful, too – this, she – and he never wants to taste anything else.

“Din,” she coaxes, one hand clawing into his hair again to the point of the most wonderful pain he’s ever known. He looks up, breathless, shifting about until his hand can replace his mouth’s ministrations while she speaks. It’s not that he _needs_ to keep eye contact, of course, but he gets so few opportunities to have her at his mercy on his own turf; it’s only fair that he lets himself enjoy it, even as she narrows her eyes back at him. When it doesn’t look like she’s going to continue, he ducks back down, lips closing around her clit and sucking until something that sounds suspiciously like a sob breaks past her careful restraint. It makes him so hard that he’s almost lightheaded, as much as he wouldn’t like to admit it, and he doubles his efforts, pairing the stimulation with the pace his fingers had found in the meantime, curling them back towards himself. “Din, come on, I want—”

“Yes?” He comes up for air long enough for the word to force its way out and it’s a surprise to his own ears just how hoarse his voice sounds. There’s an ember inside him, wicked and rare and _hers_ , and Din lets it spark into a flame. It’s what she wants, after all. “What is it?”

“Come here.” She sounds just as wrecked as she urges him up and he follows without hesitation, bracing himself above her body when it dawns on him that that’s what she wants. The pleased, heated smile that he gets in response is all the confirmation he needs. “I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes flutter shut against his direct orders for his body to remain composed. Still, he makes a futile attempt at teasing. “Was that the news you had for me?”

“When has it ever been anything else?” He’s still in her grasp from head to toe and Din doesn’t think much of it until he feels her tense and a moment later, she’d swapped their positions once again. His hips buck up against her despite his best efforts when he feels her hand wrap around his cock, stroking a few times while she positions herself. It’s an unnecessary prelude – he’s already so hard that it hurts – and she must realise as much a moment later, because she positions herself and sinks down on him with a choked-off moan. “Oh, _right_ , there was also— The New Republic,” she continues, announcement tapering off to an uncertain end as he braces his knees feet against the bed, the tilt of his knees forcing her to lean forward into an entirely new angle as she sets her rhythm. His hands wrap around her waist, his fingers sinking possessively into her skin until she can’t move an inch without bringing more stimulation out of it. “The New Republic made a statement officially recognising you as the ruler of— Oh, fuck.”

Trying to keep a conversation in moments such as this one had always been one of Cara’s more unexpected quirks and Din grins at the realisation that he’d rendered her speechless. She braces herself on his chest, leaning down until she’s almost close enough to kiss when he urges her to press against him. She fits so perfectly around him that it always leaves him strangely awed, but it’s even better this way, when they have each other surrounded. Din carefully avoids the thought of what that says about him and settles for flipping them over instead, sitting back on the bed and letting the momentum carry her along until she has to kneel over him, arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders so that she can keep herself up as he fucks up into her from below. “Which makes you king,” she continues valiantly, drawing him into a breathless kiss that trails off in the same hectic matter it had started – she tilts his head back so that she can get at his neck and Din groans when he feels the hint of teeth beyond the sensation of her full lips on his skin.

 _Figures_. It wouldn’t be Cara if she doesn’t leave a bruise, and what makes it even better is that he _gets_ it – she must be imagining it too, his fleeting fantasy from before, or something close to it, at least. The desperate snap of her hips against his as she drives them both towards their peak faster than he’d like to get there provides him with the most likely mental image – him sitting on his throne and her straddling him just like this, and, sure enough, “And you already _are_ king, of course, but they wanted me to deliver the news and I thought—” He holds her tighter, closer, urging her on as she stumbles over her words on every other thrust, “—I thought of you in that throne and all I wanted—”

“Me too,” he admits before he can help it, fully aware that now that it’s out there, it’ll be that much harder to restrain from acting on it. She lets go of him to reach with one hand between them, doubtlessly to attend to her neglected clit, a whine slipping past her lips when he pushes her hand away to take over the task himself. “I thought about it too, Cara, _fuck_.”

"Din." Her voice is breathlessly high-pitched, music to his ears, and the heel of his hand presses down on that spot that makes her go breathless with need once again when she tries to buck up against him, desperate for the friction he's holding back from her. Unlike her, he's not in a hurry - were she to allow it, he could spend the rest of the night on his knees, their bodies wrapped up in one another, listening to her pleas, feeling the sting of her fist clutching at his hair in encouragement, until he couldn't possibly work her up any further. Patience is far from Cara's strong suit and there's something about _making_ her wait - keeping her on edge - that makes him feel as restless with want as this is clearly making her. “Oh, please—”

 _There it is._ He kisses her again, swallowing the next moan into his mouth, getting his fill as he feels her inch ever closer to her release. She’s not alone. _Come on_ , he wants to urge her without taking his mouth off of hers, but he can’t, so he settles for the next best thing – picking up his pace again until he knows he’s toeing the line of being overwhelming. _Come on, Cara. Let go._

She’s a sight when she does, just like she always is – still clutching at his hair while her other hand claws into his shoulder blade as if he’s the only thing keeping her grounded. The feeling’s certainly mutual: Din groans when she tightens around him like a vice and then slumps into his arms with a gasp, the aftershocks shivering through her entire body as he fucks her through it. It’s another thing he’d learnt about her, how _good_ overstimulation seems to make her feel, and sure enough, a moment later, he’s greeted by a drowsy smile through her half-lidded eyes. His entire body feels like it’s on fire and he’s barely holding on in a desperate attempt to prolong their collective pleasure for just a bit longer. It’s greedy of him, he knows, but he can’t get enough of this – of her – no matter how hard he tries, hands roaming all over her body. Cara laughs, exhausted and indulgent in a way he only sees her when they’re together, her amusement only increasing when he eases her back into the bed, as if she’d seen it coming. “Come on, Din.” The inviting drawl of her voice is more thrilling than it has any right to be, echoing the same encouragement he’d tried to give her a moment ago, and her smile turns downright sinful again. “You can come on my tits if you want.”

The vulgarity gets him every time, _every time_ , as she knows very well, and what she’d just offered is somewhat of a personal favourite, but, “No,” he huffs, eyes falling closed again when she tightens her legs’s hold around his waist to bring him impossibly deeper, “No, I want—want to feel—”

Just imagining it is enough to get him there and Din tucks his face into Cara’s shoulder, stifling his moan into the silky curtain that her hair makes lest anyone outside of this room hears him, drawing her closer for a lazy kiss a moment later to keep them both quiet. It’s far from rational, this surge of possessiveness that takes over him, but it makes him want to never let her go; never let anyone outside of this room know her the way he does.

It’s impractical, too, if he’s meant to share her with an entire planet. All of this – Mandalore, his position, her potential place in this new world – is temporary, of course, but all of a sudden, the thought of keeping it isn’t something he dreads quite as much as he had before. It suits her. Suits them both.

“I’ll have to get going soon,” Cara says, as she always does, and it’s enough to startle him out of his reverie. Din sighs, the arm he’d thrown around her shoulders to keep her near tightening its hold almost imperceptibly. “Duty calls.”

“Don’t pick up,” he says before he’d even had the chance to contemplate it and he’s quietly pleased when she laughs, surprised but certainly not offended. “Stay.”

“I could,” she agrees, tentative as always. It’s all so fragile with them; one wrong move and she’ll be back on the other end of the galaxy, doing whatever it is that the New Republic has her do when she’s not delivering their messages. “For how long?”

“For as long as we’re here.” He doesn’t bother lying. What point is there? She knows. There’s nothing more that he’d like than having her by his side while this entire mess resolves itself.

“Sure.” It’s easy – too easy – and she laughs at the doubtlessly suspicious expression he throws her way. “How hard could it be to orchestrate a fight, fake it, and get out of here? It’s not long now.”

“Yes.” _That_ , on the other hand, feels a little like a lie – more and more dishonest every time he says it, and especially after what he’d been made to contemplate today. Better not bring it up just yet, he resolves, even if it’s only delaying the inevitable. “Not long now.”

It’s as vague and uncertain a promise as the future usually tends to be for them, but Din makes it all the same, with a confidence born out of the only certain thing left in his world – for as long as they’ve got left, here or anywhere else, it’s only right that they face the remaining time together.


End file.
